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They get out of town.
They take the highway until there's even less nothing than usual around them.
"Never been this far from home," Randy mumbles, mostly to himself, about half an hour out into nowhere.
Benson doesn't say anything, but he's only waiting.
"There," Benson says, and gestures as they pass a dilapidated old barn on the side of the highway. "Now I've never been this far from home, either," he says.
Somehow, it's... A comfort? It makes Benson seem just a little more human. It makes it a little easier for Randy to glance him over out of the corner of his eye, even if he still glances away again when he's caught.
A mile passes in silence. Then another.
"Is this really the farthest you've been?" Randy finds himself asking, the words coming out like he's been possessed to say them.
He doesn't know much about Benson besides that he's troubled, but something in him wants to learn more about him. Maybe even learn everything about him.
"Yeah," Benson sighs. "Tried to run away from home when I first got my car," he admits, with the kind of disgruntled nostalgia of someone admitting to being an idiot as a teenager. "Barely had enough gas to get back home."
Randy hesitates.
"Why did you want to run away from home?" he asks.
He's prying, he knows that, he knows he's being nosy and prodding and awful, but Benson just laughs.
"Shit, man, why wouldn't I?" he scoffs. "Nothing good ever happened to me in that town."
Randy doesn't ask a follow-up question like what bad things happened to you? or was it really so bad?
"Nothing except you, anyway," Benson hums. He continues before Randy can turn too red or linger on that fact for too long. "You didn't want to run away from home? Never?"
Randy swallows. Benson was joking, probably, about Randy being the only good thing to happen to him. He just has a weird sense of humor. That's all.
Randy shrugs.
"I guess, but..."
He shrugs again, weaker, his eyes already starting to heat with tears.
"I wouldn't have known how," he confesses. "I have my car, and I have some money saved, but I... I wouldn't know what to say to my mom, I guess?"
Benson looks at him for longer than it's probably safe to have your eyes off the road.
"You were worried about what you'd say to your mom," he repeats, in case he hasn't heard correctly.
Randy gives an even more pathetic shrug. A sniffle. He looks out the window instead of letting Benson see his face.
"I wouldn't want to leave without saying anything, I guess."
He can't see Benson from this angle, and that should worry him. Scare him, probably. He can still feel Benson's eyes on him, but that's become something he doesn't notice after the day they've had, Benson always looking at him or overly aware of him; the presence of Benson's attention is something that wraps around him and squeezes, a snake unsure of its meal, but Randy just keeps breathing through his cracked ribs and compressed lungs and waits for something to happen. Like he always does.
What happens is fingertips that scratch over his scalp at the back of his head, scritching softly and cautiously like you'd pet a scared animal.
Randy turns his head toward Benson again as though... Well, he doesn't know, as though it might not be Benson's hand, or something? They're the only ones in the car besides the plushies they made today, each buckled in in the back seat.
Benson's palm is hot where it hovers over his ear.
His thumb finds the tear threatening to fall and smears it over Randy's temple.
"Anyone ever tell you you're weird, Randy?" Benson says with a smile.
Randy is completely disarmed. It's the most gentle look he's ever seen on Benson's face.
His expression remains gentle and soothing and fond even as he pulls his hand back and slaps Randy as hard as he can in the limited space.
"Your mom would be so lucky to get a 'goodbye' from you," he says, bringing his hand back to the steering wheel. "I wouldn't send my mom a postcard from Mars," he huffs.
Randy's cheek stings. He's still staring at Benson, surprised and shocked and a little betrayed. Something flutters in his chest. He kind of wants to laugh.
He does. He laughs.
Benson glances sideways at him.
"You good, Randy?"
Randy laughs again, quieter. He thinks he's smiling.
He leans his head against the window to look out at the scenery and touches his cheek gently, like a schoolboy enchanted by a peck on the cheek.
"Yeah," he responds, and, to his surprise, he thinks he might even mean it. "Yeah, I'm good."